Fifty
Afterwards, we walk out into the afternoon light, with our bellies full of sushi and cappuccino and our ears full of an assortment of nineties’ pop, indie rock and, yes, even some nineties’ metal.
I’m feeling joyful. I had the best time, eating and laughing, and nattering to Jed about all the old crap we used to talk about. Music and movies and kids from school. And how exactly we’re going to find a Tardis in Bangarra. Nothing worthy. Nothing serious or important. None of the stuff that Viggo and I would have discussed over lunch. Just fun stuff. But, somehow, it feels important. Because I’m talking about it with Jed. And it’s our fun, silly stuff.
Jed-and-Connie stuff.
Coned stuff.
And I realise, as we’re talking, that there was no Viggo-and-Connie stuff. No “Congo” stuff. Ther
